


Bones On Fire

by Mylos



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, BrOT4, Brotherhood, Gen, Mild Language, Plus Treville, Prompt Fill, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mylos/pseuds/Mylos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Meme fill for the prompt:  nervous habits.)</p><p>In the darkest hours, when they want to act, but can't, the burn of anxiety and anger has to go somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bones On Fire

**Author's Note:**

> The full meme prompt was this:
> 
> "Nervous habits. Gen or Pairing(s). I want to see what kind of nervous ticks do all the boys have? We see Aramis reaching for the cross a few times in the show. What else can you think of? 
> 
> Bonus if you work in Treville and the Cardinal somehow.
> 
> Extra bonus if Athos' nervous tick used to be clutching the necklace but then he threw it away so, what then?"

* * *

**Bones On Fire**

* * *

D'Artagnan fidgeted, jiggling his leg as he folded his arms across his chest and tucked his hands tightly up under his armpits. Porthos was still pacing, and it wasn't helping. D'Artagnan tried to look away, but the motion of his fellow Musketeer's steady back and forth walk was the only thing to stare at.  
  
Back and forth.  
  
Back and forth.

Back and forth.  
  
"How much longer, do you think?" he questioned, just as Porthos reached the courtyard wall and turned again. With a strained release of air that stilled his tall frame and then seemed to leave him empty, Porthos stopped moving entirely. All his focus was suddenly fixed completely on d'Artagnan, though with eyes that were blank and distant. Then he blinked, abruptly, as though recognition had just returned to him.  
  
"It's been..." d'Artagnan trailed off, staring at the ground as his knee gave a twitch. He re-tightened his arms, tucking them closer to his torso, as if to hold in the unraveling, as if by doing so would allow his body to match the appearance of calm he had plastered on his face. “It’s been a while.”  
  
With a small flash across the dark surface of their depths, Porthos' eyes warmed to compassion. "Not likely to be long now," he said. "Aramis has steady hands, but digging a musket ball out is tricky business. Not to be rushed."  
  
"You've done it before. You've told me. You and Athos both."  
  
"I'm an old hand at it, yes. But not like Aramis. Not like this." Porthos cleared his throat, then said it again in a voice so low and soft, d'Artagnan nearly didn't catch it. "Not like this one." Porthos turned away then, folding one hand over his mouth. The other looked like it wanted to hit something.

After a moment, he started pacing again.  
  
Fingers twitching irrepressibly against his own ribcage, d'Artagnan shook his head. "We should be in there."  
  
"Treville's got it covered," reminded Porthos. "We can help best by not being in the way."  
  
"Damn the cardinal," muttered d'Artagnan, pressing his back up against a tree and letting out a slow breath.  
  
Porthos stopped moving again, hooking his thumbs into his belt, knuckles pale and taut. He nodded minutely, staring at the closed door of the inn. "If we weren't saving the brandy, I'd drink to that," he whispered. "Damn the cardinal. Damn the cardinal to hell."  
  
*  
  
When the door opened, Aramis emerged slowly, looking blank and hollowed out. Porthos went to him as he swayed, but Treville was already there behind him, catching a grip to his elbow. Porthos drew back just enough to keep a hand fisted in Aramis's shirtfront as he met Treville's eyes, letting his expression bleed the question that was on all their minds.  
  
"Finest surgeon in Paris," said Treville firmly. "Though some might take it for heresy, I'd swear to it."  
  
Between them, Aramis lifted a hand up towards his unruly hair in a familiar gesture. Porthos caught his wrist, gripping it tight and bringing it down before Aramis could smear blood where it shouldn't be. "D'Artagnan, bring the water," he ordered without looking away from Treville. "Athos?"  
  
Behind him, d'Artagnan held his breath, frozen in hesitation, clearly waiting for the answer before he went for the bucket.  
  
Treville's eye twitched, the only sign of anything even remotely unsteady about him. "Sleeping now," was all he said.  
  
Aramis's hand crept again towards his hairline, and again, Porthos caught his wrist. "D'Artagnan," he prompted.  
  
Turning, d'Artagnan finally went for the bucket.  
  
*  
  
Aramis was on his knees, scrubbing Athos's blood from his fingers and forearms. Scrubbing and scrubbing. The cool evening air felt like heaven against his damp skin, like a living thing battering at the haze he'd settled into. A haze of blood, and stitching, and more blood - red and warm and leaching deep into his fingernails.  
  
 _Damn the cardinal, damn the cardinal, damn the cardinal_ , he mumbled internally. Then, _Damn you, Athos_. _It shouldn't have been you. Damn you_.  
  
Plunging his arms once more into the bucket, he lifted his hand to run it through his hair, then left it there, tugging at the roots. This time Porthos let him. "Where's my hat?" he asked next, fingers itching for it, for something to hold onto, for something to keep him from tearing his hair out.  
  
"I've got it here," said d'Artagnan, standing just across from him and holding it out.  
  
Aramis reached.  
  
This time Porthos stopped him again. "You don't need it right now. Finish cleaning up, then you need to sleep."  
  
Treville took the hat from d'Artagnan's hands and set it aside on the nearby bench, too far away for Aramis to clutch at.  He swallowed.  
  
"Sleep?" a voice invaded, ringing ominously across the courtyard. "Can I assume from that refrain that all is well?"  
  
Aramis looked up to see the cardinal, with two of his guards, poised at the opening of the parapet. He felt his blood rush up to his head so fast it made him dizzy, rage sending the sensation of his heartbeat straight into his forehead.  
  
Treville's hand landed on his shoulder, fingers twisting darkly into the fabric.  
  
"To what do we owe the honor?" asked the captain, voice as cool and steady as Aramis had ever known it to be. If it weren't for the clenching of the fingers, he might have thought that was all there was to it.  
  
Richelieu tucked his hands into the folds of his robe, standing before them with stoic aplomb. But the knuckles of his fists showed through the fabric, angry and worried in their grip. "I've come to pay my respects to the king's favored Musketeer," he said smoothly.  
  
Treville smiled, showing teeth. "Nervous, Cardinal?"  
  
The fists hidden in the folds of the Cardinal's robe shifted, and Aramis felt something ugly unfurl in his gut at the pleasure of recognizing the unsettled gesture.  
  
"Why, whatever for?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know," said Treville. "Perhaps you're worried the king might find out how your inciting comments led to one of your men shooting the aforementioned favored Musketeer. Do you believe our currently not being in Paris will make the news travel any slower?"  
  
"My comments?" said Richelieu, lifting his eyebrows. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I've come to pay my respects, to your wounded man, injured in an unfortunate accident." His eyes dropped to Aramis. "And to lend my support to the Musketeer Aramis, who seems, of note, so unnaturally adept at saving lives."  
  
Porthos growled and Aramis felt his stomach twist. Shifting roughly on his knees, Aramis felt the words come out of his mouth before he could stop them, "Your schemes will catch up with you," he gritted darkly, pulling against Treville's grip to rise to his feet. "Do not forget, we know you now. As does the queen!"

Porthos and Treville each put a hand to his shoulder, though by the way d'Artagnan jerked, it should have been him they were restraining.  
  
The cardinal's back straightened into an overcompensation of posture, but his return volley was ominous. "And I know you," he said, staring directly into Aramis's eyes. He flicked his gaze back to Treville. "My prayers for your man. He's already had one funeral, has he not? It would be a pity to have to arrange another for him so soon."  
  
D'Artagnan's leg jerked again, visibly, and Porthos' clenched grip had to haul Aramis back a step when he couldn’t control his lunge. "Not like this," Porthos insisted, murmuring to Aramis in a low voice. "We'll not go at him like this."  
  
Fisting a hand once more into his hair, Aramis nodded, watching as the cardinal turned with a swish and left.  In the absence of malice, he wilted, letting Porthos and Treville hold him up. "Athos will live," he whispered to no one in particular. He was not entirely certain if it was a statement or a plea. "Athos will live."

  
*  
  
There was a black void, a void that shunned voice and memory and all but the scent of forget-me-nots as Athos struggled through it, emerging only to open his eyes to a hazy and sunlit room. Even then, it was like weaving together a tapestry, finding the unraveling strings one by one to figure out where they went, and what the picture they made was supposed to be telling him.  
  
Slowly, he recognized Aramis's bowed posture at the side of his bed, recognizing it as Aramis for the way his hands were tucked into his hair, tugging it upwards in disarray.  
  
It took longer to sort out the image of d'Artagnan, back pressed to the wall with arms tucked across his chest, looking like a cross between a statue and a wilted leaf.  
  
Then, the sound of dull footsteps - Porthos pacing. Pacing and pacing in a way that made Athos wonder which one of them had taken injured or ill while he'd been...  
  
 _Oh._  
  
He drew in a slow breath and felt it catch on the edge of pain, not letting his lungs inflate to completion. He swallowed against the need for more air, feeling like he was floating, like he was coming apart with nothing to ground him.  
  
He grappled with his hands, his wrists and arms hampered by the sensation of being weighted down, sluggish and clumsy as he tried to move them, pawing at his own chest to feel for the chain that hung there.  
  
Only it wasn't there.  
  
No chain. No pendant. No anchor to ground him or to remind him of who he was.  
  
His life.

His penance.  
  
Nothing.  
  
The scent of forget-me-nots grew, lending a panicky twitch to his frantic pawing, the pain lancing through his torso in response as welcome as it was alarming.  
  
Suddenly, fingers folded around his own and he looked up to see Aramis staring down at him with tired eyes. "You don't need it, Athos. Not anymore," he said, and his touch was warm. Solid, and grounding.  
  
Athos blinked, watching through his blurred gaze as Aramis, with his other hand, pulled the queen's cross over his head, kissed it once and then tucked it into Athos's grip. "Please say it's enough," he whispered, staring somewhere into the distance.

Athos felt himself jolt and blink again, as though he'd been sinking into another haze.  
  
He closed his grip around the cross, feeling the edge press solidly into his heavy palm, waking him, grounding him, Aramis's fingers providing just enough extra warmth to pull his consciousness back together. "Thank you, Aramis," he rasped, quiet as a ghost, and barely able to get the words past his lips. "Thank you."

* * *

  
_**fin** _

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine there are many nervous ticks I could have included but didn't. Treville's was interesting because the man is a stone. He just does not flinch (not unlike Aramis, except that Aramis has a boatload of other nervous ticks to make up for his not-flinching), so...
> 
> As always, if you love it, let it show! ;)


End file.
